


Forgetting

by OmniGamer



Series: Daedric Captivation [3]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Actual plot, Established Relationship, Gen, Implied/Referenced Torture, Light Pining, Light Torture, Memory Loss
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-20
Updated: 2018-12-15
Packaged: 2019-01-01 01:27:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12145623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OmniGamer/pseuds/OmniGamer
Summary: Despite Rowan’s immortality, he isn't impervious. Not by a long shot. So, when a fight ends badly, only his body heals from the skirmish. His mind is left fractured, and there might be a few interested in taking advantage, especially one who wants revenge.Rating and tags subject to change as more chapters are added.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welp. Here I am again… couldn't leave these two alone.
> 
> This does take place some time after the events of 'Frustrating' so it might be in your better interest to read that first. 'Vexing' (although chronologically first in the Mora x Rowan series) is not required for new readers (especially those who may be uncomfortable with non-con/rape elements).

“Come on, you overgrown lizard!” Rowan smashed his dragon bone sword and his ebony shield together.

The dragon's head swiveled towards the uttered challenge. Its nostrils flared as it scented the air, recognizing Rowan's scent as kin, as Dragonborn. The dragon's full attention was on him then, leaving the small wooden cart it had been harassing all but forgotten.

The cart's unfortunate owner took the granted opportunity to leave his hiding place and scamper into the shelter of the surrounding woods. Soon, large wet footprints in the soil were the only hint he had been there.

_It wasn't likely he would be coming back._

Albeit currently facing the ancient dragon alone, Rowan was glad that the man had survived. He hadn't been sure when he first rushed to the scene and found the dragon devouring the last remnants of a grey workhorse – its owner nowhere in sight.

The scaled beast roared, initiating its own threat as smoke coiled around its nostrils. It reared, beating the air with its massive wings, and took to the sky.

He tracked the dragon's path with his remaining human eye. The other remained covered, lest someone spy its more… _Daedric_ attributes.

Rowan didn't hold a grudge against the Daedric Prince who had taken the ice-blue original, nor was he upset over the yellow-green replacement. _At least not anymore._ Should anyone ask about his relationship with the Daedric Prince of Memory and Knowledge, he’d begrudgingly admit it was… _complicated_ … by mortal sensibilities – not that he could still claim he was truly mortal.

The dragon’s thu’um echoed above as a bright plume of fire came hurling down, scaring away what remained of the wildlife in the area.

The Dragonborn raised his shield in time, the flames exploding against its black, pitted surface. Rowan growled as he blocked a following fireball.

There would be no respite in their fight.

Watching the dragon continue to circle overhead, it became clear the beast wasn't going to land anytime soon. Rowan's lip twitched. It was taking advantage of his flightlessness and insufficient archery skills.

Fortunately, he wasn't without his own tricks.

While Rowan hated using ‘Dragonrend’, as the thu’um made his skin crawl, there weren't readily any other ways to force a Dragon to land. “Joor Zah Frul!” His own thu’um ripped from his throat, reaching into the sky to tear the dragon from its embrace.

Iridescent red scales crashed to the earth, and the Dragonborn closed the distance between them, raising his blade against the momentarily stunned beast. It shrieked as Rowan’s sword slipped through its natural armor and bit into its flesh. The great winged-lizard thrashed against its invisible bindings that kept it land-bound and managed to knock away the Dragonborn's shield in the resulting madness. He retaliated with a savage strike from his sword, causing the reptile to roar loudly in turn. Its head turned on him, its dagger length teeth snapping closed where he had been moments ago.

Too busy ducking the dragon’s deadly maw and flailing hind-limbs, he failed to register the heavy tail swinging in his direction. It caught him mid-torso, and despite his superhuman strength, Rowan was sent flying.

He rolled a fair distance, his dented ebony armor raising a brief cacophony, stopping only as his arms jerked taught as he found minor purchase. Hanging from the cliff’s edge, his gauntlets were doing little to aid him. The Dragonborn struggled to gain any semblance of purchase, his armored boots similarly unsuited for climbing.

Heavy, thumping footfalls approached his perilous position, and he didn’t have to look up to know he was in trouble. Hot crimson pattered into the dirt from its wounds, and the reptilian face glowered down at him, insulted it had been injured be a mere man. Embers glowed in its unforgiving eyes as it shook off the last of Dragonrend’s effects, and another thu’um hummed in the back of its throat. Conjured fire gathered in front of its snout, and soon after, flames licked down Rowan's helm and across his back as he hugged the cliff face tightly.

Not many could say their smithing skills had held against a direct blast of dragon’s fire, and until recently, Rowan had been content to have not tested his skill against such a feat. As it were, he could now count himself among that select few. His ebony armor bore the brunt of the flames, though its leather padding blackened under the intense heat. The Dragonborn wouldn’t be wearing it to any ceremonies anytime soon, but it had done its job. That's all he cared about. He was still relatively unscathed, though the same couldn’t be said of the rocks he clung to. The rock had softened with the heat and crumbled under his weight.

He fell.

A loud crack accompanied his landing, and pain shot through his spine. His world went black as his head smacked stone, muting the agony that tore at his nerves and whited his mind.

* * *

Mora blinked slowly. Only occasionally the conglomeration of yellow-green eyes would peer in the direction of the black lattice platform, and to an outsider, the amorphous black-green mass of tendrils would have appeared bored, disinterested. In truth, Mora was… _anxious_.

This was where _he_ was supposed to appear. Where _his_ uniquely created Black Book would bring _him_ , should _he_ open it on Skyrim’s soil.

 _Rowan_ was late.

They had agreed to meet every second Turdas. That had been the agreement to allow Rowan his pitiful need of self-monotony, despite how it twisted something horrid inside Mora every time they parted.

The Daedric Prince wriggled uncomfortably. Another thought struck him as he continued to wait. _What if the Nord had grown tired of his affections? Had simply lied to escape him?_ Mora hated not knowing. He shouldn't have let Rowan leave Solstheim. He simply didn’t have the same influence in the Nord's homeland.

Mora reached out into the void. His Black Books echoed back their locations as he mentally brushed against each. Only one was in Skyrim - as it should be. It was somewhere south of Knifepoint Ridge.

His form shifted and shrank. His tendrils amassed to form long black robes to lie over his thin shoulders. His many eyes slipped into place, forming a crown upon his forehead, shrouded by deep cast shadows from his heavy hood.

_If Rowan wasn't going to come to him…_


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shamelessly taking Barbas' dialogue from the game.

His left eye itched, but he couldn't raise his arm to relieve the discomfort. He didn't know, nor could he guess how long he'd lain there. Only that he still couldn't move.

Somehow his body was repairing itself. Somehow, he could feel sensation returning to his broken extremities - however painful it grew as nerves reconnected. He probably shouldn't be alive, but he couldn't remember enough to be sure. His head hurt. His whole body ached.

“Awake yet?” The voice was curious, but a loud yawn accompanied the query, indicating boredom.

He rolled his tongue around his parched mouth, finding he could move at least that much. “Somewhat?” he answered. His voice was hoarse. “Can't move though.”

His visitor stretched and padded over to him on soft paws. A wet nose nudged his askew helmet from his head. It rattled and fell with a few sharp clanks. “Hmmm…” The… dog rumbled, looking him over. “Shouldn't be too long though. You’re healing well enough.”

“Who are you?”

The dog sat close by, its brown eyes straying occasionally to rustling leaves. “My name is Barbas.”

“Well, Barbas. Pleased to meet you.”

“Likewise, though I haven't caught your name yet.”

“It's…” he paused. He was sure he had a name, but… Trying to recall it, he frowned. Each attempt was met with failure. “I honestly can't remember.” Worry pushed its way onto his brow, as he laughed weakly. Suddenly, he realized there was a whole lot he didn't remember.

Barbas hummed again. “I know who you are,” he said, wagging his tail slightly.

“Really?”

“Yup. You are exactly what I was looking for.”

The answer wasn’t quite what he was expecting, but he smiled regardless, feeding off Barbas’ enthusiasm. “That so? And what have you been looking for?”

“My Master and I had a bit of a falling out. We got into an argument and it got rather… heated.” The dog paused, his tail wagging having slowed considerably. “He’s kicked me out until I find someone who can settle our disagreement. That’s where you come in.” Barbas was ecstatic, his tail wagging up a small storm. 

Despite his body’s complaints, he sat up and rested against the nearby stone wall. “Your Master?”

“Clavicus Vile, Daedric Prince of Wishes. As you can imagine, he's quite the important person.” For someone who just had a falling out, that seemed to be some high praise.

“What's a Daedric Prince?”

The tail wagging stopped completely, and it was shortly followed by a head tilt. “How hard did you hit your head?”

He glanced up the rock face. “Pretty hard, I'd wager.”

“Yikes,” Barbas said, his shaggy head following the man's gaze. “I thought you had just fallen off your horse or something.”

“I have a horse?”

“Couldn't say. I just assumed since you're packing so light. I mean, no bag, no pockets. Plus, I haven't seen you before, so you must not be from around here.”

“I take it you've been looking for help a while?”

It was fairly easy to read Barbas' mood – his tail had started wagging vigorously again as his floppy ears perked forward to the best of their abilities. Apparently, he was all too eager to share his woes with another. “Oh, wouldn't you know it! People are all willing to be chummy, right up until I open my mouth. Then it’s all ‘ahhhh, demon'. Sheesh, it's like no one’s seen a talking dog before.”

“They probably haven't.” There was a loud pop and he felt a few ribs move back into place. He groaned clutching his side; his healing process wasn't exactly a pain-free experience.

Barbas looked contemplative, his chestnut eyes skewing to the side as his head cocked slightly. “Hadn't thought about that… doesn't seem to bother you much though.”

Perhaps the man should have been bothered by the fact he was holding a conversation with a dog, but for some reason, he wasn't.  He had a sneaking suspicion he'd dealt with far stranger before. “Maybe I’m just a little different.”

“I'll say. You don't see many people surviving a fall like that…”

The man gave a grim chuckle, his expression more somber than anything else. Something told him that he wasn't always so resilient, nor could he always heal so quickly. His heart hurt, though his head couldn't tell him why.

“You alright?” Barbas must have noticed his discomfort.

He absentmindedly rubbed his chest. Everything seemed to be in working order… “I… I think so.”

The dog huffed, only mildly placated with the man's answer. “If you say so.”

“So Barbas,” he started, finding his feet. “How about we go find that Master of yours?”

Doubt of his wellness was blasted from the dog's mind. “Oh, yes. Yes. Thank you.” Barbas bounded off a short distance, stopping briefly to look back to make sure the man was following him. “Now, since he banished me, Vile's been rather weak. He can't manifest very far from his shrines.”

“Are most of these… Daedric Princes restricted to their shrines?” he said, moving sluggishly as his bent and crumpled armor scraped against tender skin. He was going to need something different if they were going to be traveling any sort of distance.

“To an extent. There's a few that can manifest near one of their artifacts. Some just show up when one of you mortals are delving into their sphere of influence…” Barbas looked up and must have caught the man's blank look. “Well, take Sanguine for example. The fellow can appear just about anywhere provided someone is entertaining a little debauchery… it’s his sphere after all. Vile could, if he wanted, manifest anytime some so much as whispered ‘I wish', but of course, after our separation, Vile is now much weaker. I guess he figured it was a small price to pay for not having to listen to me anymore.” The dog's head drooped sadly, and he plodded on ahead with his tail hanging low.

“His loss I guess.”

There was a hesitant tail wag. “Well… I guess you could say I got on his nerves.” The dog's tone turned sheepish. “I tend to be the voice of reason and he finds that… irritating.”

“Barbas, for as long as we are traveling together, be my voice of reason. I get the feeling that without my memory I could get into a whole lot of trouble on my own.”

“Can do. If this works out, I'll make sure you're rewarded.” His tail wagging slowed. “Just don't trust any offer he gives you… okay?”

Barbas' words left a worrying air between them. “Okay…” the man answered slowly.

“Great. I know there's a cult that worships him at Haemar's Shame. We should be able to talk to him there.”

* * *

Mora saw Rowan's beast of burden. What he didn't see, was the man in question.

While the Daedric Prince had little sentiment for the black mare, the Nord seemed to care... at least, enough to not let the thing wander aimlessly.

He approached the beast. It was skittish at first, shying away from his presence as would most animals.

Sighing frustratedly at the creature, he addressed it. “Your Master is missing. I wish to rectify this issue.”

Somehow the horse appeared to recognize him and eased its nervous antics. Its ears settled their nervous twitching, and it stepped towards the Daedric Prince – albeit still with an instinctual level of caution. Its large head came to press up against his chest, and the action caught Mora off guard.

While most beasts couldn't carry enough thought for Mora to read, he could still sense the relief radiating from the animal. “Yes, well…” He pushed it away, finding he was getting somewhat flustered from the apparent trust. “If you are as smart as he claims you are, then it shouldn't be a problem to lead me to where you last saw him.”

The horse stared blankly, and for a moment Mora felt foolish. _What was he expecting?_ The Daedric Prince made a motion to leave, a portal humming open at his gesture. A rough tug on his sleeve drew his attention, and he let the portal snap closed. “What?” Mora asked the incessant horse irritably.

The mare ceased its tugging and trotted away a short distance. It pawed the earth in front of the dragon carcass set behind the pair. Its head shook up in down as if it was trying to point.

Several local carrion had already begun to pick the once magnificent creature apart, and it was only a matter of time before larger scavengers were attracted as well. “Very… nice.” He covered his nose with a long sleeve, the stench of decay growing stronger as he approached.

Again, the beast pounded the earth with a hoof.

Mora frowned. He had little-continued patience with Rowan's creature; despite how much the Nord favored it. It was adamantly clear Rowan wasn't here. The beast was simply wasting his time.

Whether the Nord wanted to or not, his presence near the slain beast would have been enough to claim the dragon’s soul. That was still intact. With a little bit of magic and ritual, the beast could come back. Mora would have to search elsewhere. A portal yawned open, but he was stopped, yet again, before he could go through it.

Rowan's insufferable animal was biting his arm through the thick material of his robe. Short huffs billowed through silky black nostrils as the creature herded him away from his exit.

“Out of my way,” Mora commanded.

The horse winced under his words but remained a persistent annoyance. It tugged harder, this time with more vigor. _What did it want from him?_ He glanced over the deceased dragon again. Stabs and slashes littered its body. _Likely, ble_ _d to death._ The marks could have been from anyone, not necessarily from his champion. “I don’t-” There was a tingle, the barest hint of magic still mingling in the air. It was the remnants of a thu’um, and not one used amongst the Dovah. There were only a small few who could use a Dragon Shout, and even fewer who knew Dragonrend. _It was possible..._

The mare dropped his sleeve as realization took its place on the Daedric Prince’s face.

He refused to apologize to the mare, he could tell it was smug enough already. His eyes scanned the battlefield, tracking scorches and deep gouges. A significant portion of the nearby cliff-face had collapsed, melted and blackened by flame. The fire damage was obvious but it didn’t yet explain the Nord’s absence. Even if Rowan were to be stark naked, he couldn’t be killed by flame. It would be uncomfortable, yes, but hardly lethal with the spells Mora had cast over the Nord’s flesh. The Daedric Prince peered over the edge and froze.

A large smear stained the stones, ending in an even larger pool of blood. The crimson mess had dried with time, but even at this distance, its lingering scent spoke volumes. Rowan _had_ been here, though it was unclear for how long.

Mora turned away. He had a start, and he needed to get down there to investigate more thoroughly. The Daedric Prince turned only to be blocked by Rowan’s horse again. He sighed. “What is it now?”

His answer came in the form of the beast sidestepping close, nearly knocking him over with its protruding saddlebags.

The Daedric Prince growled but relented enough to rummage through the proffered pack. His slender fingers brushed against a leather-bound package left at its bottom.

There was no need to unwrap the package to know its contents - it had already told him earlier. Still, he freed the book, observing the quality and care of its wrappings. Dark green ribbon tied the waterproofing layer of thick deerskin, and underneath that, was a layer of soft rabbit skin - the furred side facing the Black Book. He smoothed his fingers over the book’s black embossed cover and felt the treasured echoes of his champion’s touches.

Mora frowned away the sentiments that had temporarily softened his expression. He _would_ find Rowan.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, shameless dialogue snatching…
> 
> Uhhh… the torture stuff happens at the end of this chapter, most of it is implied though, so it shouldn't be super bad, but it's better to be safe than sorry.

The pair avoided the main roads, sticking instead to what looked like deer trails and hunting paths. The Daedric dog - as Barbas had corrected - explained he could draw unwanted attention otherwise. Besides, _‘how could he be the voice of reason?’ if he was forced into silence to hide his uniqueness_ , he was quick to often remind the man. With only a few coins on the man's person, there wasn’t a real need for the main roads anyway. He relented and didn’t bother mentioning further. Barbas’ reasoning was questionable, but he had no one else to trust.

Fresh edible berries dotted the brush and wild game ran abundantly. Barbas proved to even be an adequate hunter when he could be convinced to stop talking for a few seconds - able to move much quicker through the undergrowth than he could.

“So… how about Eyepatch?” Barbas asked, his tail lightly thumping as he teased a strip of flesh from the raw rabbit leg parked between his paws.

“Eyepatch?” The man lowered his own rabbit leg – this one fully cooked by the crackling fire set before the pair.

“Well, you haven’t been able to give me anything else to call you.”

He raised an eyebrow. “But Eyepatch?”

“I’m bad at naming things,” admitted Barbas. “But I have to call you something. ‘Hey, you’ gets old after a while, and at this point, we’re practically best friends.”

It was futile to argue with the Daedric dog when he set his mind to something… _Eyepatch_ sighed. He supposed there could have been worse names Barbas could have picked out for him. His gaze flicked back to the rabbit leg, then to Barbas eyeing it hungrily. Eyepatch tossed it to him, before wiping his hands off on the linen slacks he had traded for along the way.

Barbas was quick to devour the leftovers.

****

The landscape shifted as the pair continued traveling. From lush growth to sparse scraggly shrubs and the occasional lone-standing pine. Snow clumped in wet piles, ignorant of the summer weather touching the valley below.

Eyepatch hugged himself, trying to rub some warmth back into his frigid arms. At this point, he was envious of Barbas' thick fur coat.

The Daedric dog galloped ahead unimpeded by the chill, his tail wagging near uncontrollably. “Almost there. I think I can see the entrance.”

“You think?” The man's teeth chattered together, and he shut his mouth with a sharp click to silence them. The surrounding cliff walls looked near identical. _How Barbas could tell where they were in the snowy tundra, was beyond him._

“Yeah, we should be close… There!” He nodded towards a large outcropping of rocks.

It took a while for Eyepatch to notice the narrow pathway dug into the rock and snow - the hidden tunnel obscured by dangling icicles and a haphazard pile of barrels. Inside the wind had tugged the outside snow deeper still, and Eyepatch and Barbas had to wade through several cold feet of it before they were stepping on stone and dry dirt. He thought it would have been darker, but between the sun pouring in from the entrance and the occasional lit brazier and wall torches there was enough to see by.

A creak of wood, and Eyepatch's steps slowed. He slid his sword from his belt, it's weight familiar yet distant.

The gentle tapping of footsteps told him that they only had one person to deal with, but a faint distant echo added that if they made too much noise, their solitude wouldn't be for long. Eyepatch stepped out when the single pair of footsteps grew close and struck out.

There was a sharp cry of surprise, but another swipe silenced it. The Bosmer woman gripped his arm as she died, a whispered ‘thank-you’ leaving her lips. It felt so wrong, so _unnatural._

Barbas was less surprised. “Vampire's Thrall,” he stated matter-of-factly. “Careful. Where there's a thrall, a vampire should be close by.”

Flicking the blood from his sword, Eyepatch nodded grimly. _Made_ _sense_. He cast one last glance to the elf. She hadn't been here because she wanted to and Eyepatch guaranteed she would never leave it either.

They moved deeper, a sort of sullen silence clinging to Eyepatch as they traveled the twisting tunnel. When it ended, Barbas was quick to grab his tunic halting his further progress.

“Careful,” he mumbled around a mouthful of Eyepatch’s sleeve.

Eyepatch looked up, suddenly aware of the grid of metal spikes - ready to impale a careless wanderer. They stepped carefully around the half-buried trap-plate, both not wanting to have their adventure end in such a gruesome way.

Their progression was slow as there was no telling how many more traps lay between them and their goal. Surprisingly, the pair didn't have to be any more careful after all; they never did encounter any more traps.

The tunnel widened grossly, ending with a large hollowed pit in the center of the cavern they had snuck into. Voices told them they weren't alone, though Eyepatch had yet to see anything from where he was crouched in the shadows.

“I go right, you go left?” Barbas suggested - a little louder than Eyepatch would have liked. Fortunately, no one else seemed to have heard.

Eyepatch nodded, moving to the left as Barbas proposed. His first encountered quarry nearly crashed into him as he crept along the wall; the Nord's attention momentarily on Barbas' shaggy brown hide weaving unnoticed between the small spattering of individuals they would have to face.

Glowing amber eyes focused on him, and a bloodied maw opened itself into a snarl of razor fangs. A single growled shout was all it took for all eyes to fall on him.

Sudden sporadic barks pulled some of the attention away; especially when Barbas’ fangs sank deeply into the calf of an Orc. The Daedric dog released his hold, only to dodge out of the way of a retaliatory blow from an iron war hammer.

The Nord similarly avoided a strike, the steel dancing across raised dragon bone. He planted a swift kick to his opponent's sternum, quickly closing the gained distance as he thrust his own sword forward.

The dragon bone sank effortlessly into the flesh of his vampiric attacker, but that was where it stayed. A cold hand latched to his wrist, halting any further movement.

Within seconds the chill had spread. Up his arms, and into his chest to squeeze his heart. A faint red glow connected the two of them, and flitting motes of crimson were drawn from Eyepatch towards the vampire. _He couldn't let it remain like that._ A thick sludge replaced the energy being stolen. Draining him. Making his limbs heavy and unresponsive. His vision blurred at the edges, and he could hear the vampire chuckle lightly to himself beyond a growing fog.

“I smell her on you,” the vampire growled. “I can smell my favorite thrall's blood on your hands…”

Eyepatch tried yanking his arm away again, but the weight burdening his limbs wouldn't let him. His world continued to narrow. Narrow, until it was just him and the smirking monster, the shouts of the others trying to deal with Barbas, falling on deafened ears.

"How long will you last, I wonder? How long will it take to break you? How long till you beg me for death, just as the _Bosmer bitch_ had?"

The dark bruises he had seen on the elf's skin and the injuries that lay hidden by her worn leather armor, flashed before his eyes. The creature before him had been the reason Eyepatch was thanked as his blade sank into her naturally-tanned flesh. He renewed his struggles against the iron grip around his wrist. Against the force slowly draining his life. His body refused to do more than twitch.

"Perhaps you could take her place warming my prick as I-" The immensely pleased expression faltered, pain and horror twisting its features. "How… Too much. It's too much." The vampire's eyes turned hysterical and he tried to release his iron grip. But it was too late for the monster. "You… you're not-" His words were choked off. Blood seeped from his eyes, his nose. Seeped from his skin, painting it a dark crimson. The vampire collapsed, releasing Eyepatch in the process.

Rubbing the circulation back into his wrist, he contemplated the slumped form. _What had he been about to say? He wasn't… what?_

Though sporting a slight limp, and a good amount of blood clumping his fur, Barbas seemed no worse for wear as he jogged up to Eyepatch. There had been no other survivors from the encounter. “Whoah. What happened here?”

Eyepatch just stared at his hands. At the hand-shaped bruise where he had been touched by the now very-dead-vampire. “I-“

“Uggh.” The Daedric dog shuffled back a few steps. A nasty smell caught in his nose. “Looks like he exploded. Likely the poor bastard tried stealing more than his body could handle.”

“You've seen this before?” Blood still dripped from Eyepatch's fingers, but it wasn't his. None of it was.

“You bet. Usually, it’s because they went on a feeding craze… or you know…” Barbas let the remaining words hang in the air. Unspoken, but implied.

Raising a violent cacophony in his head, the voice echoed unendingly, _‘You… you're not-'_ If he wasn't human, then what was he? His fists clenched. There was still so much he didn't know. Couldn't remember. It was so painful.

Uncaring of, or more likely not noticing, Eyepatch's internal crisis, Barbas broke the silence. “You'd think he'd be smart enough to know better. Some ‘Master Vampire'.”

Eyepatch just nodded reflexively. _How could anyone have known? He sure didn’t know he was anything other than human…_

“You okay there, buddy? If you need a breather, we can take a bit of a break. Don’t want my pal passing out on me.”

Again, Eyepatch nodded slowly, though he felt no real need to rest. That was what scared him. What had scared the vampire, and had caused him to… explode. Eyepatch _wasn’t_ human. But then, _what was he?_

“Take five buddy. I’ll let you know if anyone comes snooping.”

He took the small reprieve to breathe, to better recollect his thoughts. The cavern remained unsettlingly quiet after the ruckus that had reverberated across its stone. His eyes lingered on the remains of a skeever sitting on a spit. At least it explained what the thralls have been eating so far from any sign of civilization. His attention quickly swept over the surrounding stone caskets. There came no motion from the containers, and for a few minutes, Eyepatch let himself relax.

Passing by a table and chopping block, he joined Barbas again, neither choosing to linger near the thick scent of copper emanating from the soaked wood, and Eyepatch was glad when his furry companion made no comment on the implications.

On they traveled, the network of caves and tight passageways still not giving up what they came for.

Running water drew their dual attention away from the monotonous trek through yet more tunnels. The water gushed from a crack in the far ceiling, creating a thin river as it disappeared further in.

Eyepatch had just enough time to press himself against the rock wall before they stumbled upon a lone vampire’s thrall. Crouching low, he stopped. After all the previous carnage the pair had wrought, he hoped they could pass by unnoticed.

Barbas seemed to have no such reservations. The mass of shaggy brown fur launched at the thrall’s throat, white fangs flashing in the gloom. The unfortunate man’s life ended with no more than a sickening crunch and a gurgled scream.

They traveled past, the number of bodies in their wake having grown yet again.

Finally, they came upon what they were looking for. Or he thought so at least, seeing how Barbas seemingly picked up at the sight of a large statue. Several vampires stood around its base, their backs facing the tunnel where Eyepatch and Barbas had entered. The pair had yet to be noticed.

Though not for long.

One of the vampires paused her prayers to test the air. A few short huffs and she whirled in a noticeable panic, drawing the attention of the others. The cavern fell silent. Glowing eyes stared out at them, trying to analyze the threat that had fallen upon them. No one dared to move, to breathe in case they set off the hair-trigger tension.

But, the standoff could only last for so long.

A momentary skirmish broke out, ending in a series of shouts and the ringing of metal in Eyepatch’s ears. They died easier than the earlier group had – likely because they were unprepared for any sort of battle as deep in their worship as they were.

Barbas was quick to comment. “You think you’re getting better at this? Are some of your memories coming back?” His pink tongue lolled from his head to swirl briefly around his muzzle to clean up the dried viscera.

Eyepatch’s blue eye dropped to the ground. His memories weren’t coming back. Nothing stirred them. They remained firmly locked in his head. The fact that fighting had come so naturally scared him.

“Well, no matter.” Barbas lay down, obviously waiting for Eyepatch to do… _something._

Eyepatch approached the stone sculpture, its appearance of a young, horned man whom he assumed to be Clavicus Vile. At its feet lay various offerings, some of food, some of coin, and some of weapons. “Umm… Vile?” No response. He looked back to Barbas. The Daedric dog had laid his head between his paws, and his tail gave the occasional slow thump. He turned back to the statue. _What had Barbas called Vile? Master? So, this Clavicus Vile must be someone of rank._ Trying again, he first cleared his throat. “…Lord Vile, I have a request of you.”

He half expected no response, but as doubt crept into his mind a voice echoed; not along the rocks, but in his head. “By all means, let's hear it. It's the least I could do since you already helped me grant one final wish for my last worshippers…”

Eyepatch’s attention drew momentarily to the felled bodies lying around him.

“They were suffering so from vampirism and begged me for a cure. Then you came and ended their misery! I couldn't have planned it better myself.

“So, what's your heart's desire? What kind of deal can we strike?”

It didn't take much to finally understand why Barbas warned him against trusting his master. If the Daedric Prince's last worshippers were killed in lieu of a cure… any deal Eyepatch would make would likely end with equally disastrous results. “I’m just here to reunite you with Barbas.” He was careful with his phrasing; he didn’t want even a simple request to backfire.

The mood in the air shifted almost immediately. “Ugh. That insufferable pup. Forget it. Request denied. No deal. I’m glad to be rid of him. Even if it does mean I’m stuck in this pitiful shrine, in the back end of… nowhere.” There was a pause and it wasn’t hard to detect the slow resignation. “Well… perhaps there is a way he can earn his way back to my side. Maybe… No promises.”

“What’s your offer?”

“There’s an axe. An incredibly powerful axe. An axe powerful enough for me to have quite a bit of fun, indeed.” Clavicus Vile’s words hung ominously as he continued. “If you bring it to me, I’ll grant you a boon. No strings attached. No messy surprises. At least, not for you. As I recall, it’s resting in Rimerock Burrow. Barbas can lead you right to it. The little mutt might even earn his place back at my side.”

The voice died away to leave Eyepatch with a deafening stillness. Barbas padded up to his side.

“Well, you heard him. It shouldn't take us that long to reach Rimerock Burrow.” The Daedric dog was the first to get moving again, though this time he was a little less eager.

Perhaps he had been hoping to just be taken back with open arms… _if only Daedric dealings were that simple…_ Eyepatch paused at the thought. He had dealt with Daedric Princes before. Not Clavicus Vile maybe, but a Daedric Prince regardless. His head began pounding as he tried to remember, to push back the haze clouding his memories. All he managed was to earn himself a concerned look from Barbas.

“You alright?” the Daedric dog asked as the pair walked up a short flight of steps in the back of the cavern.

“I'm fine. Just a headache.” Already, he could begin to feel it fade away, back to a lone ache every now and then.

“If you say so.” Barbas rose on his hind legs to paw at the wall, a few feet shy of a barred tunnel. “Ummm. You got to give that pull chain a good yank, and we can get out of here.”

Eyepatch saw the link of chain - a metal ring dangling from its end. “Right.” He gave it a pull, the attached mechanism clicking as the lock disengaged. The nearby metal poles retracted into the ground and Barbas barged forward into the open tunnel.

“Just out through here and we can be on our-” He stopped talking - for once unbidden.

_Not good._

It was a bad sign for the very talkative Daedric hound to stop talking. A _very_ bad sign. Eyepatch kept low, approaching the tunnel slowly, fingers twitching around his sword in anticipation.

A pair of robed figures blocked the exit, though their presence hardly explained why Barbas had fallen silent.

“It’s no used feigning innocence now, Daedra,” the man on the left, hissed. “We heard you. Where is your master? Inside?”

_Time to interfere._

“Sorry, he’s still a little riled from earlier.” Eyepatch edged himself between Barbas and the encroaching hostiles.

Eyes narrowed at his interference, and hands twitched towards the maces hanging from their sides. The elder of the two was quick to respond. “This _mutt_ is _yours_?” The hawkish Imperial sounded skeptical, as his piercing eyes roamed over Eyepatch. His hand had yet to leave the mace's metal handle.

“Yeah. Sorry for any confusion. It must have been me that you heard talking earlier.” In good faith, Eyepatch proffered his hand. “Name’s Eyepatch.”

“Oddmund.” Disdainfully, the Imperial looked down at Eyepatch’s hand. “And, what of the vampires? We heard report that a group was based here.”

Eyepatch lowered his hand when it became clear Oddmund had no intention of shaking it. “Dead. Mostly. Infighting seemed to pick most of them off. Me and… Poochie here, took care of the stragglers.” Barbas glanced up at him, the Daedric dog’s expression asking, _‘really?’_ Eyepatch gave a discrete shrug. He wasn’t much better at picking names on the spot - Barbas was just going to have to deal with it.

“Sivert, go check if what he says is true.” The Imperial motioned to the other hooded individual beside him, his hand finally relaxing away from the bludgeoning weapon. Sivert nodded, then brushed past both Barbas and Eyepatch to disappear into the cave.

“Well glad to have met you…” Eyepatch let his voice trail away as Barbas took the cue to start slinking. “But we really must be going.”

“Hold.” The command came sharp and crisp.

The rising hostility made the pair hesitantly comply.

“It is rather convenient that we find you here, our work seemingly completed.” Oddmund stepped closer, his horn-shaped amulet humming threateningly.

 _Did he know?_ Eyepatch remained silent afraid that he might give something away should he say something.

Fortunately, the other returned, drawing the Imperial's menacing gaze away. “All dead. Just as the Nord said.”

“Any way to confirm how they died?”

“Beyond the sword wounds?” Sivert asked unabashedly. The level of sarcasm was curious until Eyepatch recognized the similarities between the appearances of their company, evident in their sharp facial features and piercing hazel eyes.

Oddmund made a noise of dismissal, obviously displeased with the non-committal response. “Nevermind. What of the shrine?”

“Intact, though the hound is missing.”

Hawkish eyes flicked to Barbas, then to Eyepatch. The Imperial said nothing, though he didn't have to. His suspicions were clear enough. “It should have to be enough. The Daedric bastard won't be able to leave that shrine with it in that state.” Oddmund's eyes turned hard as they fell back to Eyepatch. “Where are you headed? Perhaps we may travel together a ways. In these trying times, one cannot be too careful.”

From the Imperial's look, there was no room for negotiating. “I go where the wind moves me, but I see no harm in some companionship for the time being,” answered Eyepatch carefully.

“Then it is agreed. If you are as you say then the Vigilants of Stendarr welcome the strength of your sword arm, however _temporary_ that may be.” A threat lay hidden in his words, albeit masked behind welcoming words and a soft tone. A single slip and there was no doubt that these _Vigilants of Stendarr_ would turn on them. Eyepatch just hoped Barbas could keep his mouth shut for the next while.

"The Vigilants of Stendarr?" Eyepatch fell into stride aside Oddmund as he had started walking away.

"Yes. Our order was founded after the Oblivion Crisis. We dedicated our lives to facing the threat of Daedra wherever they appear."

"And that includes vampires?"

"Vampires. Werewolves. Witches. _Any_ abomination that preys on mortals."

"Surely, there are exceptions?"

Scathing was the word Eyepatch would use to describe the glare sent his way. "None. Perhaps such misguided thinking was what led to the downfall of our brethren…" Fists clenched at a recalled memory as eyes darted to the younger vigilant walking ahead of them. "I refuse to lose any more to such foolish weakness."

In that moment, behind Oddmund's stone guise, the man looked bereaved. Eyepatch could understand the sentiments: the desire to not lose a loved one, the pain of already having lost something so precious – even if he could no longer recall who he had held so dear.

"Talk about emotional baggage." It was inevitable that Barbas would cut the silence. Eyepatch was just hoping that the Daedric dog could hold out until they were no longer in mixed company.

Oddmund twitched, but he was not startled by Barbas' sudden comment – more like he had been expecting it. "It is unfortunate that the mercy of Stendarr does not extend to Daedra worshippers." He stopped walking. His hand moved for his dwarven mace, leaving no doubt of the inevitable confrontation.

“I do not worship any Daedra.” Eyepatch drew his blade in retaliation, though there remained hesitance at using it. "There is no need for us to fight."

“And strangely, I believe you. You have one chance to stand aside. Perhaps Stendarr will show you equal mercy."

Refusing to back down, Eyepatch tried reasoning with the elder Vigilant. “Oddmund, he has done nothing…”

"The suffering the Daedra cause will not go unpunished. Their callous disregard for our lives is abhorrent in the eyes of the God of Mercy." Oddmund had withdrawn behind his scripture.

"H-hold on now…" Barbas went mostly ignored.

Eyepatch kept himself between Barbas and the Vigilants of Stendarr. His grip tightened and his teeth clenched. Seconds later, the inevitable happened.

Oddmund raised his mace to bring it down, as Sivert swung in a sweeping arc to strike from below. Their movements were coordinated, practiced. They held far more experience than that of the vampires and thralls that Eyepatch had faced earlier. The fight would not be easy.

Weaving through the missed blows, Eyepatch winced as the enchanted weapon passed near his head and brought with it a flare of pain to his covered eye. Surprised, he took a step back, his hand held over the left side of his face.

Acknowledging Eyepatch's distracted behavior, Oddmund pressed his sudden advantage.

Less experienced, Sivert was slow to respond. Fortunately, Barbas was quick to pick up the slack and proved an adequate distraction to the younger Vigilant of Stendarr.

Though relieved with one less opponent to face, Eyepatch was still having a difficult time. Each blow aimed for the Nord's head sent fresh agony to pound through his eye.

He didn't have to turn to tell that Barbas was dealing with a similar discomfort to the Vigilants' maces. A yelp and a whine followed a sickening crack, as Sivert managed to get a hit on the speedy hound. Eyepatch cringed in sympathy, but he could spare no further attention. Oddmund was proving to be a challenging opponent.

Neither could get an upper hand on the other. They were too evenly matched. Eyepatch's lighter blade made for quicker strikes but did little in trying to block Oddmund's heavy blows. Vibrations rattled his bones, and he nearly lost his grip on his sword several times during their bout. Small nicks and shallow cuts traced Oddmund's arms, but he bore no sign they were slowing him down. His mace continued to be an unrelenting torment, never letting up for a second.

An unexpected strike hit Eyepatch solidly in the side. He could feel the crude spikes digging into his side, tearing a sizeable hole in his tunic and side. His legs crumpled, and he fell gasping to his knees. The air punched from his lungs.

An uttered growl from Barbas was silenced with a different sharp crack. Eyepatch couldn't turn to see what had become of Barbas. He didn't have to. Sivert stepped into his peripheral, blood dripping from his robes and mace. Emotion steeled behind a façade of duty to his father, and their cause.

The Nord needed a few more seconds. He could already feel his wound patching itself. He wouldn't die here. Eyepatch found his feet, surprising Sivert who was standing closest. His blade bit into flesh and he dug it viciously into the youth's shoulder.

Oddmund lashed out defensively, a certain anger painting his once indifferent expression. The Imperial broke Eyepatch's arm at the elbow, and like lead, the sword dropped with the injured limb.

Sivert hastily retreated, clutching his own wound.

Pain blossomed behind his eyes as a secondary strike - this time aimed at the back of Eyepatch's head - claimed his consciousness.

****

Eyepatch roused slowly, his pounding head not making the process any easier. He thought himself paralyzed again when his limbs refused to respond, but the harsh pressure against his wrists and ankles suggested otherwise.

His stirring drew the attention of another. "I thought you a victim of circumstance. Tricked into aiding the scum unwittingly. Your… tenacity to life seems to prove otherwise…" Oddmund's voice carried with it a sense of betrayal. "The Daedra taint goes further than I had thought. Tell me, what were you promised to erase the last remnants of the Vigilants?"

Confusion flitted across Eyepatch's pained features. "I don-" He tried to sit up, but iron across his throat held him down.

"Lies," interrupted Oddmund, harshly plunging a dagger into the Nord's abdomen to punctuate his point. Eyepatch cried out as Oddmund twisted the blade. The iron shackles kept him immobilized, despite his thrashing. "Who sent you? _Which_ one sent you?" There was a madness in Oddmund's eyes, one that pushed past the man's need for answers. Likely none Eyepatch could give would be satisfactory.

“No one.”

“More lies,” barked Oddmund. Leaving the knife where it was, as he turned his back to the table Eyepatch was strapped to. “… hmmm… Mephala then? … No. Too obvious, as would Clavicus Vile…” A table was dragged into the limited circle of light. Sharp metal implements dotted its surface, some Eyepatch just knew he had never seen the likes of before. "Perhaps... Molag Bal… a suiting revenge if so…" The Vigilant’s eyes glinted with a possessed light as his hands hovered over the varying sizes of knives and other unrecognizable devices – some with complex hinges and some without.

His eyepatch was taken with a clinical indifference. The eye left closed for so long, finally blinking open to an uncaring view of cragged stone, climbing vines and torchlight.

Surprise was momentary on Oddmund's expression before he snatched up Eyepatch's face. His rough fingernails dug into the Nord's cheeks as he inspected the peculiar yellow-green eye. His brows furrowed, disgust painting his expression. " _Hermaeus Mora_ … not quite what I was expecting.” Oddmund almost seemed disappointed as he turned to Sivert who had been standing quietly in the shadows. “Take it from him. I don't want his _master_ spying on us." He released his hold with a snap of his wrist and looked expectantly at the young man.

"But…"

"This is no man. Just another servant of those that would incite chaos."

Sivert flinched back from the flying spittle, lips drawn to a thin line.

"Proceed." Oddmund gestured to the table of surgical instruments and nodded as the younger man picked up a thin blade.

Eyepatch fought once more against the iron shackles that held him, but the metal refused to budge.

With shaky motions, Sivert returned to Eyepatch's side. Sivert's hand hovered over the Nord, hesitant to take the Daedric eye from the prone man.

“What are you waiting for?” An _Oblivion-_ damned invitation?”

The young man looked ashamed, his eyes turning downcast. His hand was shaking horribly, but no further motion was made.

“Useless,” Oddmund muttered, snatching the knife from trembling fingers. “This is how it is done!” There was no pity behind the eyes that loomed over Eyepatch - perhaps there had been at one time, but no longer. A quieted fury drove the man's actions.

The first cut brought a new flash of fire below Eyepatch's left eye. The second was far more excruciating. His sight flicked black. Tears ran unbridled, and Eyepatch was sure at some point he had been screaming. The third incision was followed by a meaty squelch – not that he was conscious enough to register it.

Completely immune to Eyepatch’s suffering, Oddmund gave an exasperated sigh. "Fetch the smelling salts. We aren't done yet.”

* * *

Mora's steps preceded his presence. He expected some kind of fight, or at the very least an encounter with the Vigilants of Stendarr that had captured Rowan. Instead, he was greeted by a choked sound – one that shook Mora to his core.

“No… more.” Despite the stifling stillness of the broken stone walls, the rasping noise was barely audible. He recognized the owner’s voice, but the way it wavered and broke threw him off. He had never heard such pain and submission in Rowan’s voice before, and his steps quickened to find its source.

He found Rowan farther back, hidden away in a nearly forgotten room. The heavy wooden door had been locked, but it might as well have been left open when faced with a Daedric Prince. It shattered to splinters under the first blow.

The smell hit him first, as his eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness. It was of blood and burnt flesh. Mora moved further in, his shadow stretching long as his back was illuminated by the torches lining the windowless hallway.

A wet cough shattered the quiet anticipation. “Please… I can’t…”

Though Mora was still having a hard time making out the Nord’s shape in the dark, his constructed heart clenched tightly with the pitiful pleading. “Rowan…”

In response, a hunched form shifted in the shadows and Mora rushed towards it.

The Nord was hugging his knees tightly to his chest, only uncurling to look at the Daedric Prince when Mora came to kneel beside him. “Who?”

“Rowan?” Fresh bruises stained Rowan’s pale skin, joined by varied cuts and circular burns along his arms and bare legs. Some of them looked fresh, while others had almost closed. They had been working him over for some time before Mora could pinpoint Rowan, and Mora could only curse himself for the delay.

Despite the room’s stagnant warmth, Rowan was shivering, his body quaking with a tortured weakness. Where Rowan’s left eye should have been, was nothing more than an empty, bloody socket. But none of the Nord’s injuries unsettled Mora as much as the look of weary unfamiliarity in Rowan’s remaining eye – the skin surrounding it swollen and puffy with deep purple bruises.

The Nord clutched tightly to the fabric of his robe and managed a strangled, “What… am… I?” He fell unconscious shortly after, still clutching onto Mora with a desperate strength.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't know when the next updates gonna be… we're finally caught up to what I had prepared… didn't expect the difficulties that I had, so I thought I would have more done… :\
> 
>  
> 
> As a side question... would there be any interest in me attempting to post/write a less smutty version of Vexing and Frustrating? I have plans for it down the line for posting on Fanfiction (cuz of how the ratings are over there) and I was wondering if there was any interest on AO3.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made up a thu'um… Mirror (Fiik) Bind (Gron) Memory (Vahrukt)

Mora had seen to it to have his champion cleaned and tended to with utmost care.

Unfortunately, Rowan's previous clothing had not survived his torture, and Mora suspected an altercation over the loose-fitting robe when the Nord finally woke. However, with few other options that wouldn't aggravate the still tender skin, he might very well have to accept it.

It had been nearly a day since Mora had rejoined with his champion, and for the most part, the Nord remained unconscious – barely stirring, save occasionally from the nightmares that had Rowan shouting and thrashing until Mora could calm him back into dreamless slumber.

 _'What… am… I?'_ Bitter. Accusing. Desperate for a truth somehow denied him. Rowan's words echoed through Mora's mind, searing the Daedric Prince's thoughts as he continued to ponder their implications. Rowan never had any qualms about what Mora had done… at least, not that the Daedric Prince had been aware of. Sure, there was the occasional jest over the Nord's enhanced durability and strength, but nothing that would have suggested a malcontent… _But had he been wrong? Had there been something in Rowan's usually jovial manner that he had missed?_

His eyes trailed back over the Nord, the stirrings of yet another nightmare beginning behind shut eyelids. He waved his hand, fragmenting the curled wisps of thought, and watched as his champion stilled once more. His methods were only temporary, but there was only so much the Daedric Prince could do.

Mora had tried erasing the memories at first, to have the Nord forget the trauma inflicted, but Rowan was stubborn. _Always had been._ His mind clung desperately to the few memories it still possessed - unable to part with even the most gruesome from the past hours. Attempts to restore the missing memories proved equally fruitless. Something blocked his power. Something… _not natural._ He couldn’t imagine that Rowan would do such a thing to himself… _But…_

The Daedric Prince’s hand came up to stroke the side of his champion's face - the skin fevered warm and dappled with sweat. Mora’s thumb brushed below Rowan's left eye. All his other injuries had healed, but Mora knew that the socket would stay barren - void of his gift _._ The eye had been stolen and would remain so until it had been retrieved.

His hand fell and clenched. _How dare they…_

The missing eye was intact, but its location continually eluded Mora. There was nothing but flashes and brief flickers of images; nothing that could pinpoint the Vigilants’ whereabouts. The rats were clever – he'd grant them that much – if foolish for hanging onto that snippet of his soul. It remained only a matter of time until they slipped up, then Mora would have them.

“Hermaeus Mora…”

He was tired, and had little desire to entertain the visiting Daedric Prince of Trickery and Wishes. _Much less in his current state of mind._ "What is it?"

* * *

 _"Take it from him…"_ a voice whispered from the dark. It didn't belong to Oddmund, the voice was richer. Deeper. It possessed far more fury and rage than the man had, and it was all directed at the inhuman orb set in the Nord's head. _"He is undeserving of it."_

Black steel guided human hands to his eye. To make the first cut. Then the second, and third. He could tell that the voice had been displeased he had fainted. There was more pain it wanted to inflict. More suffering. The voice just wanted _more…_

With smelling salts left beneath his nose, he was brought back to a forced consciousness. Oddmund’s voice easily cut through the sludge currently fouling his mind. "What are you to Hermaeus Mora?”

 _“What would draw his interest to you; a mere **human**?"_ The other voice asked with a curiosity veiled behind hatred. _“What value could you possibly have?”_

There was a painful throb where his left eye had been, and that side of his face was warm and slick with his own blood. “I… don’t…”

There was a growl, but it was difficult to tell who it had been from.

_“There are answers in your head, boy. I can see them… they just have to be put back in **order** …”_

The thing in black armor loomed over him, its massive shape dwarfing Oddmund who seemed completely oblivious to its presence. Menacing metal claws extended towards him, and he was helpless to stop them. The manacles cut into his skin as he struggled against their bruising grip. To put some distance between himself and the claws. _To escape._

But, there would be no escape for him.

His head was soon held in a crushing iron hold, the pointed fingertips of the thing’s gauntlets pushing tight into his skull, piercing flesh and bone with ease as his head was forced back to bare his throat. The cold metal proved relentless, pressing deeper and deeper, and with it, the stirrings of pictures and of things forgotten. The monster wanted this, wanted the answers he thought lost. If he left things as is, it would find everything.

 _Danger,_ his heart fervently supplied _._ As much as he had his own questions, _he had to… he couldn't…_

Before he could even think, the Thu’um was on his tongue. "Fiik Gron Vahrukt." The words slipped past his lips on barely a breath. He couldn’t recall what they meant; just what they would do.

Heavy chains of blue and gold circled his memories, coaxing them back to where they had come, to scatter them safely behind even thicker mental walls. An unsettling feeling crawled up in the back of his throat to choke him. A feeling of crushing loss after he had been so close to knowing... He felt sick and empty – _much more so than earlier._

Both surprised and furious at being denied, the monster pulled back to inspect him. _“A Dragonborn…”_ Despite its previous anger, there was a menacing smirk to its tone – one nearing interest. “ _Perhaps you have a use after all… I am in need of new knights; you shall be the first of my new army.”_ A crystal formed in the air. Dark, deadly sharp, and perfectly formed. It hung briefly, then plunged deep. He writhed and twisted, trying desperately to retreat from the thing burrowing into his chest.

 _No. NO! It hurts. It hurts so much…_ Icy tendrils pushed under his skin; coiled around his nerves to freeze his thrashing.

The agony lessened to a frigid ache as the black-armored monster departed, its voice trailing its disappearance. _“Do what you will to him. Let him have a taste of the vengeance to come…”_

****

He opened his remaining eye, half expecting to be still caught in his nightmare; _to feel the devouring pinpricks of blades across his skin and of hot iron pressing into his flesh._ But, only soft candlelight and a hushed argument were what awaited him.

"They interfered with my deal, not to mention they laid out your champion as well. Those Vigilants need to be dealt with." The voice was familiar, and the name Clavicus Vile popped into his head to name the golden-horned individual.

The second voice wasn't as familiar, belonging to a tall individual draped in a similarly-colored robe to the one that he had been clothed in while he was unconscious. "And the issue will be dealt wi-"

He sat up slowly, grimacing slightly as aches and small pains made themselves known. Suddenly, the muted talking stopped, and all eyes fell to him.

The man didn't need his memory to suddenly feel self-conscious and he instinctively tried to make himself smaller – though he wasn't exactly small to begin with.

"Your champion is awake," stated Clavicus Vile.

"I can see that," snarked the second figure.

"Then? Lemme ask him."

He thought he heard the robed figure growl slightly. "You will do no such-"

"Ask me what?" The man swung his feet over the bed's edge. He felt like a newborn – what with the lack of knowledge, and his shaky limbs. With a scowl set on angular, pale-green features, the second individual apprehensively watched him rise to his feet. _Was the robed figure angry or worried for him?_ His mixed expression made it difficult for the man to tell. _Maybe both,_ he decided.

The other’s annoyance hardly stalled Clavicus Vile who bounded up to him, a nearly childish energy brimming beneath his light-brown skin. “I have a proposition for you.”

“Vile…” warned the robed one.

“Oh, just relax Hermaeus Mora. This will be good for him too.”

A silent conversation ricocheted between the pair, ending with a grin on Clavicus Vile’s face and… _Hermaeus… Mora_ appearing further irked.

The head of wavy orange hair turned back to him. "As I was saying, our last deal fell flat. I took the mutt back, yet I still don't have the axe I was promised…”

There was definitely a growl this time.

“Not… that you were completely at fault,” Clavicus Vile was quick to add in more of a mumble. "As you are such a straight-up sort of guy, I was hoping to maybe change up our terms a bit…"

This close, the man realized Clavicus Vile was a good head shorter than him, but somehow the knowledge didn't lessen the intimidation he felt. "Changes being...?"

The Daedric Prince's grin was back, this time wider than before. "I knew you would be willing to hear me out! Those Vigilants you encountered… I want them dealt with. Charbroiled, flayed… I'm not picky. I just want a little revenge for them interfering with our deal, and seeing how they aren't on your best side either… I figured who better to ask."

"And if I refuse?"

"Well, I'll be mighty disappointed and you would still owe me-"

"An axe?" the man tried.

"Nope. That ship has sailed. Didn't think it would be as nearly as bad as it is to have Barbas back in my head. His voice is a constant annoyance, let me tell you." The persistent smile proved to be an odd contrast to the Daedric Prince's griping. “But… you could always just swear fealty to me instead… I've never had a Dragonborn champion before.”

 _Dragonborn…_ there was that word again. The black… _thing_ had mentioned it as well. The man's brow scrunched up, and he raised a hand to his chin as he thought.

"Absolutely not!" came a barked answer that shattered his thoughts. Despite the deep shadows covering Hermaeus Mora's eyes, the man could tell there was a strange look of desperation hidden there.

Clavicus Vile's attention snapped away. A snarl tugging on his lips revealed sharp canines. "Why?! Everyone knows you've been hogging him all to yourself. You jealous that he might not want to be yours exclusively?"

"You are taking advantage of his impaired memory."

"And when has that kind of thing stopped anyone?"

“When memory falls into _my_ sphere and it is _my_ _champion_...”

“Uhh… do I get a say?” He received no response from either.

There was something to be said about being the center of a heated argument between two primordial beings, and another to be ignored by both of them completely. It was easy enough to slink away, now that both Daedric Princes where busy glaring daggers at each other.

The man inspected the room, the bookshelves lining the space, anything to occupy his time as the silent argument had yet to end after several long moments. He had even tried to leave earlier but the door had been bolted from the outside, and his arm too large to fit through the peephole to reach for the iron bolt to unlock it. In short, he was stuck with the two Princes until some kind of decision was made. Stuck and bored.

Fortunately, for not as long as he had feared.

Some kind of consensus was made, and the snarling was down to a minimum. Both Daedric Princes turned their attention back to him.

“So, there’s been a slight amendment…” Clavicus Vile gave a sideways glance at Hermaeus Mora that bordered on disgust. “As apparently choice two is no longer on the table, you either deal with the Vigilants… or, you get to spend the next ten years as a rabbit.”

“A rabbit…?”

The horned Daedric Prince sighed and inspected his nails. “I suggested a squirrel, but Hermaeus Mora wasn’t wanting something that could get into any more trouble… Spoilsport. Anyway, those are your options, and I suggest you choose quickly or I’m going to choose for you.” From the odd glance he received, it was growing clear that Clavicus Vile wouldn't mind the man suddenly being several feet shorter - even if it meant forgoing revenge.

Truth be told, neither choice sounded appealing, but he really couldn’t imagine spending the next decade as a small rodent. “The Vigilants…” he hesitantly answered.

“Then we have ourselves a deal.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter, but I liked where the break was, so...

“You didn’t have to come with me…” He paused, trying quickly to recall the name he had been left with. “Hermaeus Mora.”

The Daedric Prince walking at a slow clip beside him tensed, an odd expression dancing across his hidden features.

 _Had he gotten the name wrong…? He didn’t think so… Wait!_ The man had been called Hermaeus Mora’s champion… that would make the Daedric Prince his… “er… Master,” the man tried correcting.

His words were met with a bizarre spasm of a thin lip and Hermaeus Mora’s expression growing even more unreadable.

 _That didn’t seem to be it either… heck; it seemed a worse response than the first thing he had tried._ The man stared at his feet as he plodded forward, somewhat embarrassed he couldn't even remember something that must have come so effortlessly.

“Evidently, I do,” huffed the Daedric Prince, apparently annoyed. “I highly doubt you could track them down as you are. Do you even recall your _own_ name?”

“Well, no but…” The man hardly understood what his missing memories had to do with reading a map. “I’m sure I can figure something out.”

“Last time you tried to ‘figure’ things out on your own, you had your eye plucked out of your head and were left for dead.”

“That was…” he started, before he stopped himself. He couldn’t help remembering the warm hands that had embraced him, that had carried him from the confines of the dark cell. “Sorry.”

At his apology, Hermaeus Mora turned his gaze away. “As you should be.”

With nothing else to say, the silence grew between them broken only by the occasional wildlife stumbling across their path.

“Rowan,” uttered the Daedric Prince eventually.

“Huh?”

“Your name. It is Rowan.”

“Oh. Umm… thank-you… my Lord.” His remaining eye turned back to the ground and he idly fiddled with the edges of the tunic he was given in place of the black-green robes. It felt much more… _normal,_ and he was grateful for it _._

He would swear he heard a deep rumbling growl, and his attention immediately shot up to find the source. When he saw nothing, he turned to the Daedric Prince beside him who had stopped walking.

“My Lord?”

In a flash, several tendrils had lashed up against a nearby tree, its boughs shaking under the sudden force. “I’ve had enough of this… _farce._ Why do you continue to call me as such?”

“You’re… a Daedric Prince.”

Slender fingers wrapped tightly through the material of his tunic as the man was yanked close. “Since when has that ever mattered to you?” Suddenly, eyes that had been so carefully concealed, peered out from under the Daedric Prince’s hood. They were searching for… _something_ in his.

Now… _Rowan_ was really confused. “I had thought-” The sudden pain choked off any more words, and he was shaken roughly when his vision began blacking out around the edges.

_By Oblivion. It felt like Talos was using his skull as an anvil._

“‘Thought’ what?” There was an answer Hermaeus Mora desperately sought, but what it was… _Rowan just didn’t know._

“That…” Hermaeus Mora’s grip on him had grown so tight, he having a hard time getting words out… _or was his throat just constricting on its own?_ “That I was your… champion… that it would be… …” He felt close to passing out, but somehow he managed to finish. “Appropriate to address you as such.”

Something akin to disappointment covered the Daedric Prince’s expectant expression before it too disappeared beneath the thick line of shadow cast by his hood.

In the next instant, Rowan was released, and he staggered back from the Daedric Prince. He coughed. Once. Twice. Just enough to relieve the quickly vanishing phantom pressure.

_At least his head had stopped hurting._

Robes shifted as he recovered, and he saw an outstretched hand retreat back into the dark fabric. It had looked like Hermaeus Mora had been concerned for him, but he must have imagined it.

“Perhaps... you are right. You do not require my assistance to complete Clavicus Vile’s quest, and your amnesia would prove a rather apt challenge for my… _champion…_ ” Hermaeus Mora disappeared quickly after in a vortex of green, leaving behind a leather satchel in his place. “I do, however, insist you keep that on your person. Read it should you require… assistance,” came a final vanishing echo.

Rowan was left somewhat dumbfounded by the most recent exchange. He just didn’t understand the Daedric Prince. Clavicus Vile had been easy to read, _but Hermaeus Mora?_ Rowan shook his head. _He was left with more questions than answers._

Curiosity eventually had him peeking inside the bag he was left, finding an odd black hardcover. The book bore no title, no inkling of what information was contained within. He flipped it over in his hands, feeling the weight of it, spying its embossed cover of some bizarre creature of crab claws and tentacles.

Rowan felt like it should have meant something to him, like it was something massively important; but instead, he felt a frustrating… _nothing._ He smoothed an irritated hand over his hair before ultimately tucking the book back into the satchel he had found it in. In another motion, he had slung the single strap over his head and across his body, letting the new parcel hang alongside the other bag stuffed with travel supplies on his back.

He took a moment to roll out his map and check his location. With a hum and a nod of his head, Rowan tucked the parchment away. It shouldn’t be long before he intercepted the Vigilants of Stendarr; he just hoped he would be ready for them.

Absentmindedly, he rubbed at a spot on his chest. It itched, and he hoped it wouldn’t be a persistent annoyance.

* * *

Mora hadn’t intended to run, but there had been only so much he could take before he felt like he would lose control entirely.

He had more than a few fantasies of Rowan calling him _‘Master’… ‘Lord’;_ many of how he would tease the words from Rowan’s prideful lips; _preferably in one of their bouts of ecstasy…_

But, none ever shared the emptiness that had been in his champion’s actual tone.

Each vowel and consonant ravaged the Daedric Prince’s insides, reminding him of how much was still trapped… _or might as well be lost due to the micro incompatibilities of daedric and dovah magicks._ Mora never realised how much he would miss the way Rowan said his name. Just four letters. Near disrespectful to any outsider as it had been initially intended, yet especially now, Mora evidently couldn’t bear hearing anything else from the Nord. So much so, that he tried to forcefully break the enchantment on Rowan’s memories.

A part of him just hoped… and when he tried prying past the veil concealing his champion’s memories… _Had Mora pushed further…_

The stagnant air of Apocrypha crackled around him. He had relented in fear. Rowan’s cast thu’um had been far too thorough. _Far too ready to take everything without the right key._

Mora had felt Rowan’s mind slipping further into itself, pulling what remained away from him for the briefest moment that might as well been an eternity. He would have to let nature fix what he could not, or risk losing Rowan entirely.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally got the next chapter out!! Woot!

‘Somewhere near Riften’ didn’t exactly narrow things down, as Rowan soon found out, but it did give him a place to start.

He entered the city with ease, though he did earn more than a few odd looks when he didn’t return the odd nod – especially so when he passed a red-haired Nord.

“So, all that saving the world business fill your coffers so much you don’t have any need for us anymore. Eh, lad?”

“Who are you?” was Rowan’s automatic response.

“Playing dumb? Guess that’s the safe way to go about it…” The man looked more than a little disappointed – an expression Rowan was getting far too used to seeing from the people around him. “What happened to your eye then? Didn’t see you with the eyepatch when we last met. The big ol’ World Eater give you a little reminder when you finished ‘im off?”

Rowan could only stare blankly.

“Cripes, guess you really did lose your memory. Looks like I owe Vex a drink.”

“I still don’t…”

“Brynjolf.” An arm draped over his shoulder and tugged him in tight. “And welcome home, Lad.”

****

‘Home’ wasn’t exactly what he was expecting: a tavern, hidden deep within Ratway that ran in interconnected tunnels beneath the city.

There were more than a few people who recognized him, but with a gesture from Brynjolf, they seemed to understand Rowan’s lack of a response. _Was memory loss that common? Or did enough people have a running bet on him?_ From the number of bruises on one person they passed, and the exchange of coin from another pair, he figured it could have been both.

“So let me get this straight… If you don’t deal with these ‘Vigilants’, the Daedric Prince of Wishes is going to turn you into a rabbit?” The red-haired Nord let out a short bark of laughter as he leaned back in his chair and took another swig from the beer in his hand. “Lad, you get yourself into some odd messes.”

Rowan shrugged. The way Brynjolf repeated his story – for the others who had pulled up chairs to join them – made it sound as ridiculous as Rowan felt about it.

Brynjolf shifted forward, setting his beer down with a muted thump. “Well, I see no problem in helping you out… provided you help us out with a little issue first.”

“Of course.”

“Whoa, hold on there, kid,” chided another – Delvin, as Rowan recalled when he was introduced… _or reintroduced._ “While I admire your enthusiasm, you don’t know what you are agreeing to yet.”

“Yes, exactly,” came a new voice and face – one that Rowan hadn’t noticed until now.

“Brynjolf, is this the one you were telling me about?” The Dunmer bent down to scrutinize Rowan closer, her violet eyes flicking quickly over his face before sliding back to the red-haired Nord.

“Aye. Glad you finally decided to join us, Karliah.”

She huffed, not at all impressed by what she saw. “Doesn’t look like much.”

“None of us do,” Brynjolf returned, “Yet, here we are.”

Her posture relaxed as she shifted her weight and crossed her arms over her chest.

“I suppose.” Karliah’s attention snapped back to Rowan. Her next words were spoken carefully – as if she had weighed each in her mind before speaking it. “Are you ready to accept the edge we require to take down Mercer Frey?”

* * *

There was only one direction a request of that nature could go, and Mora internally cringed when his champion accepted without further hesitation.

Apparently, Clavicus Vile found the whole situation far more amusing than Mora did. When he finished laughing, he turned to Mora, grinning fiercely as he did so. “He just can’t stay away from us Princes, can he?”

Mora sighed, long and slow. It was far easier to monopolize his champion when the Nord had a prejudice against Daedra.

“So what are you gonna do this time? You have dirt on Nocturnal as well?”

“I wouldn’t call it… _dirt._ It’s more of an offer…” Mora retorted, offended that Clavicus Vile could imply such a thing.

“Pfft… if that’s what you call it. Next thing you know, and they’ll be calling you the Prince of Bargains…”

“If you have any qualms about how I do things…”

The other Prince merely raised his hands.

“Not at all,” he grinned impishly as he swiveled back to the scrying pool Mora had set up to follow the Black Book in Rowan’s possession. “Just color me curious…”

* * *

They met at the standing stones just south of Riften. Brynjolf nodded as he approached, though Karliah almost looked as if she was hoping he wouldn’t have shown in the first place.

“Was beginning to think you lost your sense of direction as well as your memory, but glad that you could finally join us, Lad… Wherever here is…” Brynjolf turned to the Dunmer for answers.

“Here is the headquarters of the Nightingales.” Both Rowan and Brynjolf gave her a blank look. She sighed and motioned for them to follow. “I’ll explain on the way.”

She led them deeper, into a winding tunnel in the rock face that Rowan hadn’t noticed initially.

They felt their way along the carved walls until the tunnel widened to a larger cavern. Signs of neglect marked its scarce furniture, but the braiser sitting in its center had been maintained recently – lighting easily when Karliah used it.

Karliah motioned them down another path. _Apparently, there was still more to see._

“So, this is Nightingale Hall…” Brynjolf started, at least sounding a little more impressed than he looked. “I heard about this place when I first joined the Guild, but I never believed it existed.”

“The assumption that the Nightingales were just a myth was seeded within the Guild on purpose. It helped avert attention from our true nature.” the Dunmer filled in, as she ducked a low-hanging chunk of rock. “What’s wrong, Brynjolf? I can almost hear your brow furrowing.”

Brynjolf briefly scratched his chin as he sighed. “I’m just trying to understand why I’m here, Lass. I’m no priest, and I’m certainly not religious. Why pick me?”

“This isn’t about religion, Brynjolf… it’s business.”

The Nords exchanged a look. Rowan shrugged. _A good answer as any,_ he figured.

The slight frown on Brynjolf’s face said he was less convinced.

****

The twisting maze of tunnels would have gotten anyone lost, and Rowan was glad for their guide.

The newest area they had entered was lit by wall mounted torches. It also appeared in far better condition – untouched by the ages it had seen.

“This is the Nightingale Hall. You’re the first of the uninitiated to set foot inside in over a century. Now, if you’ll both proceed to the armory to don your Nightingale Armor, we can begin the Oath.” Karliah gestured to a small alcove in the rock. Three pedestals sat in a half ring.

Again, the Nords shared a look as they both approached them – this time it was one of confusion. Brynjolf was the first, his hand touching the pedestal’s engraved surface. There was a shimmer of faint blue light that traveled up the redhead's arm, to encompass his head and dissipate at his feet.

When the enchantment faded, he was no longer wearing his usual Thieves Guild leathers, but unnaturally dark leather that made him seamlessly blend with the surrounding shadows.

Next was Rowan’s turn, and he was surprised when he felt nothing but ended up similarly dressed, the dark cowl not at all as hampering to his vision as he thought it would.

“Enough to make your head spin, eh?” Brynjolf nudged him, as Rowan was stuck staring at his now gloved hands. “Time’s wasting and Mercer’s still out there. Let’s get this show on the road.”

The pair returned to Karliah, both still mulling over the clearly magical armor.

The Dunmer greeted them back.

“Okay, Lass. We’ve got these getups on… Now what?” Brynjolf shifted his weight foot to foot, arms crossing over his chest in habit.

“Beyond this gate is the first step in becoming a Nightingale.”

Uncrossing his arms, Brynjolf jabbed a finger in the Dunmer’s direction. “Woah there, Lass. I appreciate the armor, but becoming a Nightingale? That was never discussed.”

Karliah brushed the finger away with an arrogant wave of her hand. “To hold any hope of defeating Mercer, we must have Nocturnal at our backs. If she’s to accept you as one of her own, an arrangement must be struck.”

The red-haired Nord crossed his arms again. “What sort of arrangement? I need to know the terms.”

“The terms are quite simple, Brynjolf. Nocturnal will allow you to become a Nightingale and use your abilities for whatever you wish. And, in return, both in life and in death, you must serve as a guardian of the Twilight Sepulcher.”

He shook his head with a sigh. “Aye, there’s always a catch. But at this point, I suppose there isn’t much to lose. If it means the end of Mercer Frey, you can count me in.”

She turned to Rowan who had been fairly quiet for most of their journey. “What about you? Are you ready to transact the Oath with Nocturnal?”

Rowan stood hesitant, a small part of his mind protesting that this was a bad idea. But he needed their help, and if that help meant he had to pledge himself to Nocturnal… “Yes,” he finally decided.

“Good.” Karliah gave him an appreciable nod. “After I open the gate, please stand on the western circle.”

Despite how old the gate was, it opened with barely a squeak. They entered, Rowan and Brynjolf unsure of what to expect.

Ancient roots hung from the cavern’s ceiling, water traveled down the walls to gather in a shallow pool below the raised platforms. The air was damp and humid, adding to the air’s oppression.

Rowan did as instructed, stepping onto the western circle. Brynjolf claimed the one opposite. Lastly, Karliah joined them, lightly stepping into the last remaining circle. She spread her arms to the heavens beyond the cavern, her presence demanding all attention. “I call upon you Lady Nocturnal, Queen of Murk and Empress of Shadow… hear my voice!”

The air shimmered, and despite the feeling of a presence, nothing appeared. “Ah, Karliah, I was wondering when I’d hear from you again. Lose something did we?” chided a woman’s voice.

Karliah sunk to one knee, her hand over her chest and her head bowed. “My Lady, I’ve come to throw myself upon your mercy and to accept responsibility for my failure.”

“You’re already mine, Karliah. Your terms were struck long ago. What could you possibly offer me now?”

“I have two others that wish to transact the Oath; to serve you both in life and death.”

The voice grew silent for a moment. Suddenly, Rowan felt a presence. Something akin to eyes sweeping over him, followed by light fingers tracing over his body – squeezing in others. There was a soft whispered, “I can see why you hold his favor,” and Rowan stiffened, trying to pretend he wasn’t affected by the seemingly-omniscient being in their midst. He earned himself a soft chuckle before the presence retreated.

“You surprise me, Karliah. This offer is definitely weighted in my favor.”

“My appetite for Mercer’s demise exceeds my craving for wealth, your Grace.”

“Revenge? How interesting… Very well, the conditions are acceptable. I name your initiates Nightingale and I restore your status to the same, Karliah. And in the future, I’d suggest you refrain from disappointing me again.”

Karliah bowed deeper with the invisible being’s departure, then stands; their ceremony concluded. Brynjolf joined her soon after, yet Rowan remained. It was as if he had been rooted to the spot; a heavy weight pressing down on his shoulder to keep him in place. Neither the Dunmer or the red-haired Nord seemed to notice his predicament as they left.

The air behind him shimmered, though much weaker this time. For some reason, Nocturnal had returned – or simply never fully left. “Do not panic, I simply wish to talk.”

Despite her words, Rowan could still feel his heart hammering in his chest. He swallowed and tried to nod.

“One has come to me, knowing of your to-be Oath, and has paid me handsomely to overlook you.” Nocturnal paused, seeming to contemplate his place within Karliah’s plans. “While you help my Nightingales, I grant you the same boon as them. But, once your dealings are through, I will be revoking both your status and power. Do you understand?”

Again, he tried to nod.

“Good. I doubt this will be the last time we meet, _Dragonborn._ You have certainly caught my interest.”

Finally, the presence truly vanished and he was released; his muscles somehow shaky as if he had just run a mile. He left the cavern quickly to rejoin the others, refusing to cast a second glance back.

****

Irkngthand was where they had tracked Mercer to. His goal had been the Eyes of the Falmer secured deep within the dwarven ruins. Brynjolf said to be prepared, but so far it was mostly just cleaning up the ones surviving Mercer’s murderous wake.

“Those bandits back there…” Rowan asked when there had been a break in the action.

“Brynjolf and I found them like that. Mercer’s doing. We have to catch up to him before it’s too late,” answered Karliah curtly.

They continued deeper slowly, avoiding both traps and the clan of Falmer that had claimed the dwarven ruins as home.

Eventually, they seemed to have caught up with the traitorous thief: Mercer more or less distracted by the gigantic snow elf statue, taking up the opposite side of the room. He had evidently already stolen what he came for, the statue’s eyes just empty sockets.

Karliah stopped them both from immediately acting on instinct. “Looks like he hasn’t seen us yet. Brynjolf, watch the door,” she whispered.

“Aye, Lass. Nothing’s getting by me.” He held his position as Rowan and Kaliah crept further into the chamber.

“Climb down that ledge and see if you can…”

Rowan clambered down as quietly as he could, apparently he hadn’t been quiet enough.

“Karliah, when will you learn you can’t get the drop on me,” Mercer announced haughtily.

An explosive rumble echoes across the stone, but the thief doesn’t seem to care or notice.

His attention focused on Rowan. “When Brynjolf brought you before me I could feel a sudden shift in the wind. At that moment, I knew it would end with one of us at the end of a blade.”

“Give me the key, Mercer.”

He sneered. “What’s Karliah been filling your head with? Tales of thieves with honor? Oaths rife with falsehoods and broken promises? Nocturnal doesn’t care about you, the Key or anything having to do with the Guild.”

Rowan could only remain silent, his reasons for helping far less noble than what Mercer was thinking. His only response was to draw the dragonbone blade at his side.

“Then the die is cast, and once again my blade will taste Nightingale blood!”

There was a shout, but it had been from neither Rowan nor Mercer. It had been Karliah, startled by Brynjolf suddenly attacking her with his own weapon. Steel clashed against steel, echoed similarly as Mercer charged Rowan.

“What’s… what’s happening… I can’t stop myself.”

“Damn you, Mercer! Fight it, Brynjolf… he’s taken control of you!”

But, the most Brynjolf could manage was making his strikes slower, less vital. It looked like Rowan was on his own to fight Mercer.

His footsteps splashed noisily through the chamber, each step louder than it should have been. He swung, striking air. Rowan turned, but couldn’t see where Mercer had somehow disappeared too.

There was a chuckle followed by a piercing sting to his left side. He swung towards the sound but again hit nothing.

_Invisible then._ It certainly seemed like it. His eyes swept the chamber, looking for clues, some sign as to Mercer’s whereabouts. A splash. He turned, but it just had been a falling stone. Rowan gained another cut on his right side for the mistake. Backing away slowly, he tried looking around again.

Ripples. Inconsistent with how the water should have been moving along the chamber’s floor. Rowan stabbed forward, earning a grunt from the air. He slashed and stabbed forward, again and again; sometimes striking Mercer and sometimes not.

A cut above his eye, a superficial stab to his thigh. He wasn’t without his own injuries.

One final desperate thrust hit something solid. Mercer’s illusion dissolved as his hands wrapped around the blade through his sternum. Still clutching Rowan’s sword, the thief collapsed. The life drained from his body.

Rowan picked through Mercer’s pockets, grateful to find the skeleton key and finally put this whole thing behind him. He returned to the hall’s entrance to overhear Karliah talking to Brynjolf, asking if he bore anything serious. Fortunately, they both seemed relatively unharmed from their skirmish a long cut along Brynjolf’s arm the worst of the injuries.

“Damn. This place is coming down. You have the key and the eye?”

Rowan nodded, handing over both the large gem and Daedric key.

“Good. Then let’s get out of here.”

Brynjolf tried the door, but it didn’t budge. He tried it again, throwing his good shoulder into it. When that failed, he turned with a shake of his head. “No luck there, Lass. Something must have fallen on the other side of the door because it isn’t moving!”

“We have to find another way out of here before the place fills with water!”

They scoured everything, the water rising first from the rim of their boots to their waist. It didn’t look like it was going to stop, and panic began settling into Rowan’s mind. When it became evident that there was no way out, the trio moved to higher ground, finding narrow steps winding up the back of the statue.

“You okay there, Lad? You’re starting to look a little pale.” Brynjolf then caught him staring at the cold water. “You can swim?”

“Barely,” Rowan tried with a small smile, trying to feel more confident than he felt. He was beginning to doubt if he could even manage ‘barely’.

Brynjolf returned his own weak smile. “Hell of a time to learn.”

A pipe burst above them, dousing them further and hastening the water’s rise.

“I’ll say.”

They were at the highest point they could go and the water wasn’t about to slow down. It was around their waists again and quickly rising to their shoulders.

“Shit!” yelled Karliah, frustratedly smashing her fists against the water’s surface.

Rowan had to agree, but a rumble directly above them momentarily pulled his focus. The rocks above them had lodged free. “Brynjolf!” He shouted, managing to slosh towards the red-haired Nord and push him out of the way. Unfortunately, he had no time to find distance himself and took the brunt of the stone’s crushing weight. The rock pinned him beneath the water, the impact crushing the air from his lungs.

He heard muffled shouts as he disappeared into black.

****

“Don’t you die on me, Lad!” Something was pushing rhythmically against his chest. Three quick compressions then a pause. It repeated until he coughed, water pushed back up his throat with the action. More coughing followed.

Wiping the spit and water from his mouth, Rowan sat up and blinked the water from his remaining eye.

“Glad to see you alive.” Brynjolf gave him a clap on the back before standing.

“Glad to be alive.”

Karliah was a little more focused on the key in her hands. She was staring at it like it might disappear at any moment. “I can’t believe it’s over. Twenty-nine years in exile and just like that, it’s done. All that remains is to ensure the safe return of the Skeleton Key.”

Helping Rowan to his feet, Brynjolf nodded. “Aye, but I think you’ve helped us enough, Lad. Now I suppose it's time to return the favor. Karliah and I will finish up here with… whatever we still need to do, but I’ll send word out when we’re finished. Hopefully, someone has seen the bastards you are after.”

“Thank-you Brynjolf.”

“Any time, Lad.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd lie and say life got in the way... but in reality, I've been having too much fun writing a bunch of stuff that happens either later in the story... or a lot later chronologically.

Not sure who Brynjolf’s contact was, Rowan leaned up against the bar. He ordered a beer, only half paying attention as the Altmer woman placed it down beside him.

His eyes lingered longer on the woman than they should have, but there had been something familiar about her. Something almost odd with how she smelled faintly of ink and parchment instead of the usual scent of hops that he was accustomed to.

_It didn’t help either that her chest was more than a little generous._

With some effort, Rowan was able to pull his eyes away and directed them to the dark-haired Breton that had just entered.

The robed stranger scanned the room with his eyes, and finding Rowan sitting at the bar, marched over with a smile on his face. “Fancy meeting you here. Just what are the chances we’d bump into each other again?”

“Do I know you?” Rowan asked the stranger.

The Breton looked blankly at him and blinked exaggeratedly a few times for good measure. “Do you know me? Well, I would certainly hope so.” His loud voice drew the barmaid’s attention, though it was hardly the usual false cheer he had seen from the others. The Altmer woman looked downright murderous – not that the Breton seemed to notice.

Rowan focused back on the still jabbering Breton… or _Sam_ as he had introduced himself. “Anyway… how would you feel about a contest?”

“A contest?” Rowan was quickly beginning to suspect the Breton was not the contact Brynjolf was sending.

“Indeed,” Sam replied, he slammed a tankard down in front of himself, and a similar one in front of Rowan – knocking into the one that had been placed there earlier. Each wooden vessel was full to the brim with a rich smelling beer. How they got there, was beyond Rowan’s understanding. He hadn’t even seen the elven barmaid move beyond her mouth thinning to a fine line. She looked about ready to snap, her fist clenching on the bartop. And again, the Breton seemed completely unawares, perhaps to the point that Sam had noticed and was purposefully aggravating the woman.

“A simple drinking game,” Sam continued the corners of his lips pulling into a sly grin.

A hand slammed into the wooden table, startling Rowan. The Altmer woman’s fist had left a noticeable dent.

_By Talos, the woman was strong!_

“Do not bother our… patrons, Saaam,” she said with a twitching smile. “Take your ‘game’ elsewhere.”

This time, Sam seemed to acknowledge her, his grin quickly sliding from his face. He seemed annoyed by the interruption but as his eyes spied the circular dent and traveled up the length of her arm to see her face, a cold sweat broke out along his brow.

“Haaaaa…” he said with a slight tremble as he deflated.

Rowan didn’t blame him. _He, himself, was a little intimidated._

“Fancy seeing you here, Mor-” A quick hand slapped across the Breton’s mouth. The Altmer’s grip on Sam was tight, her fingers turning white as the Breton’s flushed cheeks turned a similar color. Sam’s attempt at a smile had been crushed.

“You will not utter that name,” she warned, her voice dropping dangerously low.

“So, you to know each other?” Rowan tried, breaking the tension that even some of the other patrons were beginning to notice the hostility.

Sam’s eyes darted to the woman’s before he shook off her hand.

The Altmer leaned back, her arms coming up to cross under her chest and unconsciously make her breasts look even bigger… _if that was even possible._

Rowan had to consciously raise a hand as he leaned into the bar to stop himself from staring.

“Oh, you bet. Me and Morsephona go way back,” answered Sam, though Rowan could have sworn there had been a hesitant pause before ‘Morsephona’.

Morsephona relaxed back, but her arms remained crossed over her chest. “It’s a dumb name,” she admitted as if explaining away her previous behavior.

“It’s not the worst name I’ve heard…” countered Rowan, trying to be helpful.

“There. You see,” Sam grinned. “Now, how about you stop being such a stick in the mud and join us in some shenanigans.” The Breton wiggled his empty tankard.

The Altmer woman opened her mouth to argue again, though Rowan beat her to it.

“Actually, it probably for the best I stay sober.” Beginning to get worried that he would miss his contact with all the attention, he stood up with the drag of his stool.

Sam sighed dramatically into the bartop. “Party poopers the lot of you.”

Feeling just a little bad for the man, Rowan added. “Put in a rain check for me.”

The Breton’s dark eyes seemed to gleam with an unnatural glow. “Oh, you can count on it.”

Rowan turned and bumped into someone. “Sorry,” he said automatically.

The man staggered a bit drunkenly into Rowan and forced a crumpled note into his palm. In the next second, the stranger had disappeared back into the crowd.

He opened his palm, slowly, giving time for it to partially uncrumple on its own. It read ‘Faldor’s Tooth’, in a hurried hand.

_So this was it…_

His fist closed tight around the paper and he pushed his way through the door, and back into the world.

****

He didn’t know how old the information was… _A few hours? A day?_ All he knew, was that he couldn’t risk losing the Vigilants’ trail.

Rowan charged ahead between the sparse forest of birch and bramble grass, pausing only occasionally to catch his breath. Traveling on horseback would have been easier, but it would have meant he needed to steal a horse. The one he had, left somewhere he still couldn’t remember.

Needless to say, he remained without.

The ruined fort dragged into sight, its stone walls crumbled to the barest hints of its previous glory.

_Abandoned… Or so he thought…_

An iron grating had been fitted over the only entrance into the ruin, the fresh crimson gore spackling the metal giving it a very menacing feel. He tried the grate and found it locked, though hanging around a bunch of thieves for a week hadn’t been for not. Flipping out a set of lockpicks, Rowan had the lock opened in a matter of minutes.

The smell was even worse inside the ruined courtyard.

Rancid. The stench stung his nostrils, and he nearly gagged as a gloved hand quickly rose to cover his mouth and nose. Bodies were laid in neat rows, each in a different state of decay, each with odd crystalline projections coming out of their skin. It was as if the dark crystal had been growing inside of them then suddenly exploded outward, their skin being ripped and shredded by the likely painful experience – or if they were lucky, the crystals emerged after death.

With the sight unsettling him more than it should, Rowan quickly moved on. He shouldered the only openable door open and squeezed inside.

****

The roof had partially caved in on the narrow staircase making the only way available, down. With a hand pressed against the curving wall, Rowan worked his way down the uneven steps. His progress was slow, but he preferred that to any likely accidents in the dark.

Fortunately, while still rank, the smell had lessened somewhat. Not that it stopped the continued horrors.

Cramped cages lined the walls or the ruined fort. Some had nothing within the rusted bars, but those that did…

Mutilated dogs, wolves… and men and mer alike. Some had died clawing at the bars. Others, having given up to their fates, in the far back corners of their cells. There was no blood, no smell that would indicate a cause of his nausea. There was an uncomfortable thump in his chest, and he quickly pulled his eyes away. He couldn’t stand the sight of the dark crimson crystals that had deformed their bodies.

 _“No. No. Noo!”_ The voice was overpowering the human tones beneath it, reminding him of the familiar grind of cold steel. _“What am I missing?!”_

There followed an echoing clatter and fluttering parchment. Rowan used the cover of the added noise to move that much quicker.

Creeping around the corner, he spied Oddmund. The man was bent over a table, a body splayed out across its surface. A body mutilated the same as the others. Red crystals growing from the eyes in macabre imitation of tears. From the nose and ears. The body belonged to Sivert. Or, what remained of Sivert.

Somehow, Oddmund remained completely indifferent to what remained of his fellow Vigilant. To what Rowan had assumed had, at one point of time, been the Imperial’s son.

Rowan drew his blade, the purposeful slide against its scabbard drawing Oddmund’s attention. It was then that Rowan realized the man was not truly alone.

Like a vapor, or a nightmare come to life, the armored Daedra manifested alongside Oddmund. Its actions mimicked those of the Imperial, or more accurately, Oddmund’s actions mimicked the Daedra.

 _“Another test subject?”_ The Daedra cocked its head slightly to one side. Oddmund did the same. They straightened up as some recognition settled on Oddmund’s otherwise blank face. _“No. You are Hermaeus Mora’s pet..."_

A clawed gauntlet reached out for him, somehow reaching further than the actual extension of Oddmund’s actual arm.

_Cold…_

His chest felt unnaturally cold, and the feeling was creeping along his veins. It froze his sword arm, the swing halting mid sweep. Rowan tried to move his arm again, but it wouldn’t move any closer. Every thought of striking down the man before him, destroyed as it tried to form.

 _“Not ready yet?”_ The metal Daedra seemed annoyed, yet… intrigued. _“Interesting. What makes you different?”_

The icy chill surrendered back to the surrounding warmth of Rowan’s body. He found his breath again and swiftly retreated with staggered steps. It felt distinctly that the Daedra had let him, that it let him do anything at all. “What was that?” He held up his sword, its sharpened tip drifting from Oddmund to his Daedric shadow.

_“Oh, I think you know… You’ve seen the results of some of my experiments.”_

_Experiments?!_

“Those were living things! People!”

 _“Pathetically mortal. Useless things really,”_ the shadow said, completely indifferent to all the suffering it had caused. _“But an unfortunate necessity.”_

He might have come on another’s will, but Rowan knew he had to end it here. _Somehow._ “Gol Hah Dov!”

Oddmund staggered back, the Bend Will shout having some sort of effect.

 _“You would dare bare your teeth against me!?!”_ The metal Daedra roared, unaffected regardless of being hit in the same blast. _“I bend to no one's will!!”_

Rowan felt the cold seeping into his chest again. His fingers began to lose sensation. Something was in his head, willing his grip on his sword to loosen.

The blade fell with a clang.

Oddmund lashed out against his once master in Rowan’s place. His mace whizzed through the air to strike black plated armor. The metal Daedra howled again, rage deep in its burning eyes as it vanished, leaving Oddmund and Rowan alone.

Without his puppet strings, Oddmund looked suddenly very tired. He leaned heavily into the nearby wall, his enchanted mace falling at his feet. “They’ve won. I’ve lost my wife at the fall of the Hall of the Vigilant, my boy…” His fist tightened as a pained expression took its place on his face. “My boy at my hands. All because of those monsters.”

Oddmund reached into his stained robe and tossed a small satchel at Rowan. He caught it.

“It’s what your _Master_ was after. Still after,” Oddmund corrected.

Rowan’s eye slid away from the broken man and to the embroidered bag in his hand.

_His… master?_

Remembering the expression on… Lord Hermaeus Mora’s face… The pained expression behind those veiled eyes.

_What he… wanted?_

Curious, Rowan opened the bag and spilled out its contents.

_An eye?_

Beside him, Oddmund sucked in a sharp breath between his teeth as if the sight of the yellow-green orb could curse him.

Perhaps it could, Rowan wasn’t sure-

A sudden pulse struck him, punching the air from his lungs. He dropped the eye in his surprise.

_What?_

His head was hurting like some sort of floodgate had been released. Flashes of memories he couldn’t quite recall played out in grainy contrast behind his eyelids. Filled with a desperation he couldn’t quite place, Rowan fell to his knees to retrieve the Daedric eye. Fingers closed around it, and the images grew stronger, more clear.

_‘My concern, Champion, lies solely with your wellbeing, not that of a simple merchant’s.’_

_‘You are my… champion. Why can’t you act more like it?’_

_‘Why? When I need you so much? When I would give you everything? When I… love you…’_

_‘Rowan!’_

Pulling the eyepatch from his face, Rowan rose back to his feet, the eye cradled gently in his open palm. It called to him, a sort of hum that only he seemed to be able to hear. He held it nearer to his face.

“I don’t… I don’t understand.” Oddmund stared at the Daedric eye in Rowan’s hand as if it should be burning him. “You would willingly slip that collar back on?”

Rowan’s mind was still partially reeling from… whatever had just happened from picking up the eye. It was like someone had just quickly dumped all his memories back into his skull then shook. His own single gaze fell back to the inhuman eye, to its yellow gaze and horizontal pupil. His hand closed gently around it, to hide Mora’s sight from his next words. “It’s a very comfortable lap to return to.”

“So you would admit that’s what you are to that thing? A dog?”

Rowan smiled weakly. _Maybe he was…_ He never truly asked. _Maybe he would never…_ He wasn’t sure if he wanted an answer. “If need be.” He opened his hand again and raised the eye to his empty socket.

It seemed eager, somehow trying to urge him faster.

_Careful Mora… Your excitement is showing._

The eye slipped into his socket with ease as it began to hum with some sort of resonance. He could feel a sort of fibrous tickling across his skin. Rowan winced as the tickling grew more painful, like hundreds of small needles piercing the scarred flesh, opening the old injury and making the skin raw again. A fire erupted in the side of his head, and his hand clenched around his eye socket. He could feel a warm trickle seeping through his closed eyelid, through his fingers.

When the agony finally subsided, he pulled his hand away. It was slicked red. There was an almost apologetic thrum from the eye, a gentle caress against the inside of the socket as he blinked back his now two-eyed vision.

Maybe it had something to do with being able to see out of the left side of his head again, but he felt complete again. Whole. Something he hadn’t felt in a while, nor realized was missing until just now. From the sense of relief he was getting through the Daedric eye, Mora must have been feeling the same way.

“And the Imp?” Oddmund was staring at him wearily. He was waiting for a punishment, that Rowan wouldn’t give. “I can’t imagine it’d leave things as is.”

“Your… punishment was left to me. Vile gave no instructions as to what it would be.” Rowan turned to leave. There wasn’t any reason to stay.

Oddmund seemed surprised. “Just like that? You won’t give an old man his final rest?”

“Wouldn’t be much of punishment if I did that…”

A dry, humorless chuckle. “And what a cruel punishment it is…”

Rowan didn’t need to turn to see the tears streaking the other man’s face, and he blocked the sobs from his ears as he climbed the curving stairs.


End file.
